Palestine Day 6

I was told that it would be easy to get through the check point to return to Jerusalem, for a day of touring, and then Tel Aviv, to fly home.

It wasn't.

My amazing taxi driver, Ez, arrived promptly at 9 am on Friday to get me. He said we'd be back in Jerusalem in 15 minutes. When we arrived at the checkpoint, a young, wiry, agitated looking soldier with very dark circles under his eyes aggressively demanded Ez's documentation, and after clearing him, came for my passport. After I handed it to him he began to yell and wave both his gun and my passport around, and threw it back at me. He then told Ez something in Hebrew that clearly upset him.

He sent us to another check point, and Ez kept saying "He's crazy. This is not right. This is the right checkpoint for foreigners...this is where you cross."

We had no choice. We drove to the other checkpoint, which was a walking bridge. I had to leave all my bags in the car and he said "I'll get you in 5 minutes, on the other side." When I began to walk, feeling vulnerable, I encountered a line that was so long I couldn't see the other end, and other taxi drivers said "its 1-2 hours. This line is not for you." The line was full of Moslem pilgrims headed to the Holiest Mosque in Israel for Friday prayers. I didn't mind walking, nor waiting in line, but it was pretty clear to me that I might do that and be turned back, because it was a "humanitarian" line for locals. It was also clear to me the soldier had ordered Ez to take me here after seeing my baggage---clearly to much to haul across a footbridge.

I called Ez and said "It will take 1-2 hours" and he said "come back."

We then wound our way for 20 tense minutes through the mountains to an outpost checkpoint that clearly made Ex nervous to cross. It was not a usual place for either a Jerusalem-based Palestinian, nor a foreigner, to cross back into Israel.

As we approached he said "Don't say anything. If they push you, tell them you have to make a flight." I became very nervous, knowing that my ticket showed a next day departure and that if I got caught in a lie, I might not get across here, either.

A beautiful young woman was guarding this check point, and with her colleague, a friendly looking young man, we were given passage after barely a glimpse at my passport. I began to cry, realizing only then how tense I was. Ez grabbed my hand and said "Good. Good team!" He was clearly, deeply, relieved.

There is a part of me that wanted to go back to that unreasonable, mean-spirited soldier and say FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me drive around looking for a way back to Israel. Fuck you for sending me to a line that you knew was very, very long (as it always is on Fridays) after seeing all my bags. Fuck you for not allowing us the passage I, and my driver, have absolutely the correct papers for.

Poor Ez had never had a hard time with a foreigner (and especially, he said, an American). It isn't good for him to have these run ins and risk losing his permit for Jerusalem--and his livelihood.

I am still trying to find the kind of compassion I have heard Tibetan friends and clients of mine, tortured at the hands of the Chinese, express for their torturers "because they must suffer so much to inflict this much pain on another human being." I keep thinking of that soldier, how agitated and mean and frankly scarily crazy his facial expression and demeanor was, and how crummy, perhaps, his obligatory service is, manning a checkpoint in such a tense and disputed area.

I am conflicted at the anger I feel because this incident was just wrong, and it might put Ez at risk for more trouble at the border area. I feel sad, deeply, deeply sad, that this ancient holy land, just minutes from where someone as significant (Jesus Christ) to the 3 major religions represented here (Christianity, Judaism and Islam) was born, and died, is the site of so much fear, hatred, misunderstanding and inhumanity. I have been to Rwanda, Darfur, Haiti many times after terrible catastrophic events, Indonesia after the fighting and the tsunami, even New York after 9/11...and I have never been so affected by the plight of a people. Perhaps it is because there have been refugees from Palestine since 1948--an endless life of flight and limbo. Perhaps because Palestinians are, in many ways, a people without a name, and certainly a people without a voice, because their claim to a homeland is not recognized, and there are peoples and places that do not acknowledge Palestine as a country. They have tremendous resiliency, hope and pride--and are beaten down daily, by the lack of access to a sacred and historically meaningful site like Jerusalem, to the ocean, to travel into the greater world. This slow strangle is unbearable to breathe in and out--and yet, I only did so for 4 days. My single incident check point struggle is a daily reality for all of them.

As I begin my journey home, I pray that Ez never has another difficult encounter like that again, and I pray that the young man whose story I heard someday gets to the sea, and that the lovely, inspiring students I taught can travel to the places they dream of--be it Jerusalem, or be it Canada to take university courses---with the same relative safety many of us take for granted.

As Christmas approaches, more and more Pilgrims travel to Bethlehem. Tourism is increasing there, as the area settles down and the Palestinians work hard to make it an attractive, safe and desirable place to visit. I wish that anyone who has dreamed of going there will make the journey, because by doing so, by standing on this land, we recognize the existence of this people and this place, who have really been there longer than many of our societies and cultures. Our visit can support them to belong.

Bethlehem Day 5

Its very difficult to write the reality here.

Last evening, after class, I was invited by some of the participants, all Moslem, to visit the Nativity Church and the manger. Because I was with them, I got access to areas of the Church I did not see on Friday--and they graciously shared their understanding of the significance and power of Jesus life, and the holiness and historic magnificence of this place. As one enters the Church, there is a large sign stating that the roof repairs, taking place now, are being funded by the President of Palestine. Apparently, personally.

As we stood in a small cave under the current Church, I blurted out--without thinking--"Jesus was a Palestinian". My friends laughed, and say "You didn't know he was born in Bethlehem?". I replied that I did--but never had anyone in all my readings, studying, conversations about Jesus' life---ever acknowledged that Jesus is Palestinian. He was born in Bethlehem when the land was called Palestine (I think--or something like that), and Bethlehem is now in Palestine.

So, he might be considered a Palestinian--to the extent that these boundaries have any relevance to his life.

I continue to be not surprised and deeply disturbed by what I am learning about the day to day realities of people's lives here. I heard a story today about a young man from one of the camps that has been home to Palestinians since 1948, who was injured by fighting some years ago, and was treated by a therapist for the trauma. In doing depth work with him, she learned that he--like many Palestinians--has a long history of trauma, and layers of exposure to terrible experiences. And the most significant trauma in his life? WHen he was 6, he and a group of his peers were given permission to go to the beach. Most Palestinian children here today have never seen the ocean--they have no access. Delighted to finally see the sea, they ran into the water, and within 5 minutes, were dragged out by Israeli soldiers who told them "you are not allowed in this ocean. It is for us."

That was the most significant trauma of his life. To have been--and to still be--kept away from the sea.

Palestine, Day 3

I arrived Tel Aviv after a long-way-around journey from Khartoum, via Frankfurt, on Saturday afternoon. I had to travel on 2 tickets, and 2 passports, due to the non-relationship diplomacy between Sudan and Israel. When I arrived, the wild sand and dust storm that has blanketed areas in Palestine and Lebanon and Syria with snow, created dust and sand "fog" so thick I could only see a few feet ahead of me. I tried to walk around Bethlehem, where I am teaching--but the wind was a shrieking cold cyclone that made anything other than staying safe and warm inside impossible. I did manage to get a taxi to Manger square, and visited The Church of the Nativity and the manger. Who knows if this is really the precise place where Jesus was born--but it feels, deeply, like a holy place.

This is a distressing time to be in Palestine. Each evening, I walk around the city, and no matter which way I look, one can see settlements. I may be looking at the same one or two, but it doesn't matter-they are visible, facing sharply into Bethlehem. They appear to be built to be very noticeable. I feel as if cold eyes are piercing through me.

Each evening, we eat dinner together, and I am not surprised, but saddened, by what I hear. One lovely young woman who is devoted to her studies (a Masters in Psychology) asked if she could borrow my group therapy books for the night, to help with her research. Its hard to get something as basic as a text book here. She is unable to get to Tel Aviv to buy books because she cannot (despite repeated attempts) get a permit. She---like many other young Palestinians I've spent time with here--hardly travel, despite their longing to see other places in the world. Because they cannot get through the check points to Tel Aviv, they must cross the bridge to Amman--which takes at least 1 day, each way, and means waiting in long lines for hours, being strip searched, and being asked intrusive questions. Simply put "We don't travel. Its too tiring and its too hard."

Today, when I asked if there were any questions about the activity we had just completed, one of the men in the training asked "How do I apply these methods to my clients, who just called because their houses are being demolished?"

Indeed, how?

A group or women I spoke with over dinner spoke of the sadness their children feel, because they may never see Jerusalem--a place they all have precious childhood memories of. They wonder if they will ever see this beautiful city, with historic and spiritual significance for their people, again.

When we finished eating, they asked me what my expectations were, from Palestine? I said "its exactly what I imagined--friendly, warm, generous people, and its a beautiful place, full of terrible tragedies and injustice; a place that is being strangled and suffocated." They asked what my hopes were, and I said "That all of you-- and your children-- might see Jerusalem again."

Departing Khartoum

The week flew by here, and I am already checked in and preparing to depart this ancient city.

There is a magic here--in the light, the dust, the fluid movement of sand and robes and breezes--that is seldom talked about where I come from. There isn't a whole lot to do here, if one expects the kind of busy-ness we are accustomed to in many parts of the west. But I never tired of watching the sun rise and set here, because the colors that day fades in and out of are not colors I see elsewhere--they are softer, more muted, more gentle.

Today a friend, Sue, who worked with my husband 20 years ago in Uganda, took my colleague and I to the old souks--we visited the bead markets and the place where many old baskets and carvings are available under piles of more touristy-oriented knick knacks. Some of the beads are plastic and tacky, but if one practices the same patience that observing the sunrise and set offers, one can find some true treasures. We found old coral and clay beads, and baskets woven in Darfur 40 years ago. 40 years isn't so, so old...but these are baskets from a time when Darfur was not threatened by the tragic war that it is today; when the weavers likely lived a peaceful, simple, nomadic existence. I bought one of the old baskets, grateful to have a little piece of evidence of the heart of Darfur. One of my dear friends from Santa Fe, Alicia, sent bundles of prayer flags for me to place in Darfur (we were originally to work there) and so they have traveled there with some of the participants from our training. When I introduced the prayer flags, and shared their tradition and intention, many of the trainees were surprised, and touched, to know that there are some in the USA who still tend to older traditions. Their impression had been otherwise.

We hope to return in February to work in Darfur. There is a lot going on in Sudan these days, so our ability to do that is uncertain. Inshallah.

Sudan Day 3-4

I am in Khartoum, Sudan now. This was a really long and not an easy trip. Too many long layovers—which must, I’ve decided, make a significant contribution to jetlag, as I normally don’t get jetlagged, and its been a tough adjustment.

It might also be this land--- Sudan feels, to me, like stepping into the arms of the ancient mother. I was here three years ago, in Khartoum and Darfur, and I was especially captivated by the sand in Darfur (which is here, also, but less visible due to development). The sand is the color of dawn and runs like silk through my hands. In these ancient places, it almost seems as if the sand has absorbed the memories of many millions of years of sunrises and sunsets, of stars in the sky, of footsteps and camel-steps and the advance and receding of older oceans. I have asked a friend currently based in Darfur, but headed back here tomorrow, to bring me some sand, so I can touch all those memories.

The people here are magnificent. Walking through a market (souk) here is like seeing all of humanity in a few faces---skin tone and color, features, ethnicities, all strikingly different face to face, and yet the elements of the many tribes and races and religions and ethnicities that have belonged here can sometimes be seen in one face. I find the Sudanese people unusually warm and generous.

We are here (my friend and colleague John Fawcett and I) to teach a 4 day training on staff care. To hopefully bring some energy to the idea that not only beneficiaries--- but also staff -–living and working in complex emergencies/humanitarian responses must also be cared for, supported, and tended to. The group we are working with brings amazing history and resource to the workshop. Many work in Darfur; several have survived abductions. One of the women is someone I worked with (briefly) 3 years ago in Darfur---we recognized each other, but didn't quite recognize that we recognized each other, until she gave her introduction. She was able to answer my questions about the whereabouts and safety of the people I knew while there, who I have remained concerned about since leaving---and have been really concerned about since many NGO's were expelled from the area, leaving so many Darfurians without aid, work, support, witness. She agreed to carry letters back for me.

We talked about aspects of Sudanese culture that serve as protective factors from the harm that can be caused by exposure to stress, and one particularly moving example was of the practice of seeking counsel from a wise person. It was his description of this practice, delivered with reverence about a practice he described only having heard about, that was moving. Many of the traditions and practices have been lost or sacrificed to politically induced, cultural changes. A focus of our afternoon discussion was on how to “grow” the seed, the kernel, of these practices so that at least the core or essence of them is preserved. This seems a good inquiry for all of us.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 6

Last day in Haiti, and the final trip of this piece of work (developing staff support) that began very soon after the earthquake.

Yesterday was "meant" to be a quiet last day spent with friends, in closure, taking care of things that needed tending to.

Instead, chaos. Traffic--which feels terminally congested beyond any normal measure of congestion, since the onslaught of International Aid, was incomprehensibly immobilized. ANPIL ANPIL BLOKIS. Everything took 1-2 hours more than usual. And I had three stops, throughout the day, to close this work.

When a friend promising transportation didn't come through, when those who came through with rides were caught in the nightmarish "BLOKIS", I was late for everything. And then, at the end of the day, my only way home was a ride in an insufficiently "upkept" car, with no defrost, barely functioning windshield wipers, driven by a lovely many who did not know the area I needed to get to at all.

A torrential downpour, horizontal and vertical lightning, immense thunderbooms resulted in flooded roads. Flooded roads that were swarming with vehicles trying to get home at the end of the day. We sat, for 30 minutes at a time, to budge a few feet.

The driver, unfamiliar with an automatic (especially an old, worn out automatic) vehicle, could barely see due to a fogged up and unyieldingly wet windshield, glare, and his increasingly "tet chaje" (literally, charged head). After the first hour, the car broke down, and as just as they were a collective relief when traffic began to move, we were blocking the road.

What transpired after (for three hours after) was sometimes stressful, sometimes amusing, sometimes fascinating, and sometimes very uncomfortable. People yelled, honked, screamed. Driver of large vehicles sat on their horns--some barely missed us if they were moving and didn't see us to to the downpour, the lightning, the dark I called friends, at times calm, at times on the verge of tears, at times angry. All I wanted to do was be home with my dear friends and family here, and watch the sky turn evening colors from the same porch that has given me solace for many years---especially since January 12th. Its the place where I sat every evening when I first came here, and stayed on this safe and comfortable home, alone. Its where the 350+ stories and 25+ group histories moved through me as tears, rage, incomprehension, weariness, inspiration, hope, human connection.

We finally made it after multiple arguments (within and outside of our car) and I am still waiting to hear that the driver and a friend made it back down ok.

I arrived very late. Dinner was ready. A cold prestige. Conversation. Tears. And my finally realizing that, despite my almost agreeing to remain a week longer and coming a phone call close to changing my ticket, its time to come home. Yes, Haiti is home, and--I have been here more than my home in Santa Fe since January, and I am as tired as I am inspired by this place I cherish. I am also forever changed.

Kunyala, m bezwen tann pou refleji. Now its time to reflect, write, rest.

I will be back, sooner than later, as projects and contracts keep emerging. My heart has grown 100 times in its capacity to listen and to love every time it breaks here---and it is still breaking, and still growing. When I packed late last night, I found all my notes, from the first "PFA" session, til now. All the sessions (group and individual), all the workshops and trainings, all the meetings, all the reports and recommendations and journaling. Two legal pads full of words, names, people's emotions, needs, and contact information, ideas, concerns, things I want to remember, symbols I doodle.

I reverently reviewed each page, then burned them. Ale. Like the Spirits we aid to fly when they cross over, I pray for each story, each tear, each breath that breathed in dust, death, decay while waiting to be rescued or trying to rescue others, to fly. I cannot carry them home.

Ayiti Cheri, map la chak jou. Kembe. Map torne anko, demen, si bondye vle.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 10, Trip 6

Just came from Hotel Oluffson where RAM was warming up for their weekly Thursday night fet. Its very, very hopeful to hear that very familiar music again--music that carries Haiti's root rhythms---in the very same place, same day, same time, as has happened for years.

The NGO Staff Support Working Group that has been meeting monthly since January had requested that this months meeting be a self-care (practical) training. Today we spent a day at Management Sciences for Health, in a brand new, cool and comfortable conference room, where I provided this training. It was amazing--another splash of hope. We worked together (particularly MSH's lovely HR Director, Joelle Larco) to make this workshop happen for as many psychologists, medical professionals, HR folks and others (who are over-extended, tired, and generally spent) as possible.

I think it would be a boring read for me to review the workshop; its sufficient to say we covered some good and succinct information about stress, trauma, secondary trauma, and somatic therapies, and--played and practiced a variety of self care (body and arts based) practices to calm, relax, balance, energize, center, ground and restore. It was my intention that the day be a "mini-retreat" for all the participants. It succeeded----and while it certainly wasn't a magic wand to erase the ongoing intensity and challenge of their work, and the never-ending suffering of so many Haitians--it was a day of communion, laughter, and healing.

I will share two particularly hopeful moments:

One of the participants, after a review of types of trauma, said "Bon--we are experiencing all of these in Haiti now----it just makes me wonder how we are still here, still standing?"

So I asked the group to answer that question--to ask it of themselves, present moment, and here is our list:

Po ki sa n'ap rete kampe (Why are we still standing?)

or

What makes us resilient?

Faith of God

Hope

Prayer

Close relationships with others

Contact with others

Open to other cultures

Music and Dance

Laughter and Humor

Generosity

Wanting to give back

Feeling Lucky

Counting blessings

Reason-to-live (Raison d'etre)

Our Resiliency

Our Haitian Culture

Soccer and The World Cup

"Seize the moment"

Profite la vie

Mete Tet ansam--SOLIDARITY

At the end of the workshop, I facilitated a group activity where we identified shared strengths or resources (in small groups) and shared them with the larger group, in a very creative fashion.

Each of the 3 group created a song----and the songs were brilliant. I was very sad not to have had a video camera with me as I have never seen such brilliance, heart, and inspiration ever--anywhere--with this particular activity. I would have loved to record them to share with the group--as a reminder of their resiliency--and as a teaching tool for others interested in resiliency.

The songs (crafted in only 10 minutes) were beautifully rhythmic and harmonized, creative, silly, poignant and simple. The words did everything from integrate the song and dance "Amba Decom" (Under the Rubble) that Haitians created to acknowledge the experience of being under the rubble with both blatant clarity and tremendous humor; to invite a call-and-response movement and singing choir where we shaped the rising sun while we sang "We have the sun, we have the light" (for anyone whose never been to Haiti--the light here rivals the magical light that many artists seek in New Mexico).

I wished my friend and colleague Melissa had been here to see this, as this was the hope she reminded us was essential to traversing this 6 month marker where hopelessness tends to overtake survivors. This 5 minutes of song was a sound bath of joy, heart and hope----and hope is not a word I use easily. Especially here, where there are still so many trauma, hardship, change and loss reminders. Body parts, long removed from their human form, still found daily; over 75,000 Haitians missing. Rubble neatly piled by the road, and suddenly in the road when these seasonal rains become a torrential downpour. People shaking their insufficient tarps out after one of these rains, in an attempt to make their sleeping space a wee bit drier.

Amidst all of this, and despite the tragic sloth-like response of those leaders with the power (and money) to change these inhumane conditions and experiences:

"No problem, no problem, no problem

We don't have a problem--

We have each other.

We have the sun, we have the light.

We have the trees, we have God.

No problem, no problem, no problem

We don't have a problem (we can't fix):

We have each other.

I

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 7, Trip 6

Have been in Cap Haitien to connect with my Lakou (community) and take a friend to Plan du Nord for the annual pilgrimage to honor Ogou. Plan du Nord is the site of mud baths in a river whose origin is in the mountains above Cap Haitien---I have heard the origin of the river is near the dwelling place of Ogou. This dwelling place sits below the Citdaelle, Haiti's majestic fortress that was built between 1805 and 1820 to protect the newly liberated nation.

I have visited Plan du Nord (google this for more information) each year since 2005, sometimes at a time other than the fet (festival) which takes place during the time of Ogou (St. Jacques) July 23-25 every year. It is always packed.

This year, sadly, there were not nearly enough people as is usual, except at the actual baths--where it seemed more crowded and more difficult to navigate. My friends told me that the high number of deaths and the economic impact of the earthquake has impacted this important spiritual and cultural event this year. Entering the area was sad, and vendors and practitioners seemed to vie for business and attention more so than usual.

The baths, however, were packed--and while I asked why, no-one knew. We speculated that perhaps the devastation and never-ending distress caused by this event has caused more people to seek healing--or, as in the case of Plan du Nord, rebirth.

The baths are intense. I imagine years ago they were healing and purifying as mud is--now, they are filthy. Despite my deep respect for this tradition, which occurs very near my own Lakou Jissou, the public health professional in me squirms at the idea of entering this dirty muddy water. I observe, offering my prayers and lighting my candles for Ogou Feray, espwi ki danse tet'm.

The following day we held our own Fet Ogou. After ManChoun's death 2 years ago, our Lakou is naturally figuring out how to operate (for lack of a better word) with the three designated successors (myself, Mawiyah and Lolo) being quite part time. Family members, previously uninvolved, have necessarily stepped up to offer logistical support--and, at times, there are misunderstandings between their understanding of our tradition, and ours---ours being what ManChoun taught us.

ManChoun may have been the last of the true Mambos. She was the embodiment of benevolence, and taught is the tradition with one hand----which means, kindness only. The practice is based in love and universality, which she carried in her heart, spirit and actions at all times. We had some hiccups preparing for the ceremony, and, it was a beautiful and varied gathering.

We surprised the community with our arrival, because so much has been uncertain and chaotic here since January 12th. They were sad that Fet Ogou might not take place. Despite some of the tensions we experience in planning with others who don't know or practice, the ceremony was lovely and a clear indication that ManChoun was guiding us. Its hard to describe ceremony in words---there is so much energy, there is vitality, color, pleasant and unpleasant smells, death, blood, pure white bright flowing skirts, play, provocation, dirt, incessant rhythm, sweat, joy. We danced until Spirit entered the space and made visual the tensions and misunderstandings we are working through. This is what Spirit does---in your face opportunities to find clarity, to divine, to come clean, to change and transform, to act, to reflect. The laughter and joy that emerged through the convergence of so much energy and so many people was a relief and a healing. The tension and provocation and challenging that took place was a raw and direct reminder of where we are.

Vodou is spirit---the practice of connecting to essence, and ancestry, of knowing how to act and how actions are not single events locked into time and space dimension but energies that continue to play out through kyros time and through the spaces in between---the crossroads, the intersection between life and death, spirit and humanity, past and present, present and future, tragedy and joy, the potent space Buddhists might call nothingness and Vodouists might call timelessness and others might experience as everything, all at once---Ever present, we all encounter, breath by breath and life by life.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 4, Trip 6

Today we finished a three day "Psychological First Aid" (PFA) training with the Uramel Psychotrauma center. We is myself and Dr. Melissa Brymer of UCLA/NCTSN, a colleague and friend, who is one of the those who originally operationalized Psychological First Aid, a concept that originated in the forties (or fifties?). Melissa was one of the very first people to reach out to me after January 12th, and her support has been invaluable for my work here, and for my own heart.

I began promoting the idea of this training shortly after the earthquake, to both Melissa and to my beloved colleagues at The Uramel Psychotrauma Center. Having first trained with Melissa, through NCTSN, many years ago, I knew the value of this work in the immediacy of a disaster. In the first three months after the earthquake, I provided over 350 individual PFA sessions and 20 something group sessions. It became clearer and clearer to me that this model would benefit Haiti not only in the immediate post disaster phase, but also long term, if local professionals and paraprofessionals are trained to do this work --and train others to do this work -- in anticipation of (likely) future disasters and troubles.

The training was a wonderful experience, and much of this is due to Melissa's amazing skills as a trainer/facilitator, and her intimacy with this work. The first day was challenging--as first days often are. Melissa had "warned" me about the possibility of the sense of a loss of hope, quite common worldwide at this 6 month moment, and while this made sense intellectually, I was quite stunned when myself, along with my Haitian colleagues, friends and family, "dropped in" to the reality of how much hopelessness is emerging in Haiti, now.

After three days, however, there has been a shift--and I find it impossible to describe in the limited realm of words what shifted, and how. I told Melissa that I believe PFA itself instills hope--seeing the energy and engagement of the participants on day 2 and 3 when the material began to "take form"; when their practice sessions revealed amazing sensitivity, skill and enthusiasm; and when conversations about the many ways PFA can "shapeshift" its supportiveness while still adhering to a clear and comprehensive model (which my Haitian colleagues deeply value) -- all this contributed to a sense of hope, energy, vitality and life in the room.

There is something bigger that happened, also--but again, no words. I do think PFA can describe itself as a model that increases and enhances hope--whatever that means. Perhaps its the simplicity and universality of the work, embedded in a rich and complex model, that enables this.

As I write, my dance and drum community (The Railyard Community in Santa Fe, under the leadership of Elise and Eric Gent) is fundraising for Trauma Resources International. Many of my dear dance class-mates are performing, as are dancers, drummers musicians and others from New York, West Africa and elsewhere. The proceeds of this fundraiser will enable TRI to continue to support trainings for the Uramel Psychotrauma center (we are currently working on a three year plan for community-based mental health) as well as continue to support the therapeutic program for children in Carrefour, very near the epicenter; and contribute to the work we are doing in partnership with Atletik Payi Ayiti ("ADH") in Cite Soleil.

The convergence of hope---the "tet ansam" (all of us together) spirit of our PFA training; the dance; the drums; the ceremonies we are preparing for this weekend---tout bagay li fe espwa. Nou pa ka pede espwa paske "espwa li bagay final tout nou pede."

port au Prince, Haiti Day 8, Trip 5

As I write this blog I am also preparing to board my plane for the first leg of a three flight journey home. I have not written this trip, both because it was short, and also because internet was down most of the time. But there is another reason—the nature of this trip was quite different from others.

I did not do much individual work with local people. When I returned to Haiti this time, there was a shift—a “quieting” is the only way I can describe it---amongst those I usually work with.

Most of my work this time was programmatic; however, I arrived to find that while many Haitians were certainly still dealing with stress, trauma, loss and grief, they were quite busy in the remaking of their lives. The expatriate community, on the other hand—humanitarian workers, many of whom have been there since January—was unraveling. After a requested group session for several humanitarian workers, it was as if the flood gates were opened. I was consistently busy providing session for people who were experiencing burn out, secondary trauma, PTSD and depression.

We have been hearing that the magnitude of this disaster has trumped all others in terms of human horror and loss, levels of destruction, and complexity. If that is true, the evidence is in the distressed state of many of the humanitarian workers—especially those who were deployed early on—who work hard and courageously to assist the Haitian people.

There are many reasons for these levels of distress—some I have already addressed in previous blogs. Simply put for today—the lack of leadership and of a cohesive, Haitian informed response is contributing to a widening gap between the international and national community. Buddha taught us that separation creates suffering. This is painfully visible in Haiti. One expat described her experience as her face pressed hard against the pane of a glass window, waving to her Haitian counterparts and colleagues and would-be-friends, frantically gesturing to demonstrate how much she wanted to interact, to know, to touch Haiti. All the while, jobs demand we adhere to policies, procedures, and external agendas that may not reflect the long term and deeper needs of the Haitian people who want their lives, their capital city, their country to become country---to restore kay nou, our home—and to share it with the many visitors there today.

There are no illusions that Haiti will ever be what she was, but there is an understandable desire that a proud history and a commitment to place will be foundational to however Haiti’s future is built.

What does it mean that the hearts of so many who deployed to assist are breaking? What is it like to live in fear of the place and people you are helping, because a primary concern of employing organizations is liability, and fulfilling donors agendas so that numbers on paper are emphasized over human relationship?

I suspect the rein of the NGO’s will soon be over. I suspect this disaster will demonstrate that this is not a viable system. I originally left this professional world over 20 years ago because I was criticized and ostracized for believing, and promoting, the idea that any humanitarian worker should strive to work him/herself out of a job in 10-20 years, depending on the context. I suspect that the private sector will become the future of development of places, people, even in humanitarian emergencies.

I had this dream my last night in Haiti: I was showing my Father some of the places and people and things I love in Haiti. In one very green area, I was showing him beautiful black lilies on a strange, rustic, makeshift bookshelf sitting out in the open. These flowers were unique to this area of Haiti. Suddenly, two of them moved--crawled. They were actually gigantic tarantulas.

We stepped back, quickly, as I heard myself telling my Father "Watch Out!" They are going to jump! They bite"

Sure enough, they jumped for us--but we backed away fast enough and they missed us.

When I awoke, this phrase was in my early morning mind:

The dark soul of pain is where the longest light lives.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 2, Trip 5

The night I arrived, I dreamed the earth was moving--I kept waking up from a dream that felt like I was trapped in a square space that could not stop shaking.

The night before I arrived I dreamed of many women dressed in white, wearing white moshwa, preparing for ceremony.

Haiti feels different. I'll write bluntly: there are way too many foreigners here. Once again, Haiti is being parceled out to various interests---some for profit; some not for profit, and I feel the trampling of sacred ground by 1000's of hooves. Greedy hooves.

Local friends are losing jobs to foreigners--"experts", arriving to Haiti for the first time.

Doctors closing practices and leaving the country because there is too much free medical care here. Reports that things are not improving, and the inevitable "WHY--there is so much money pouring in here?"

Why? Because many of the people here weren't invited, have no previous relationship to Haiti, have their own agenda or mission or protocol and no time to gather input from local people. I wish someone would stand at the airport with a sign that says: "IF YOU ARE NOT INVITED GO HOME". And really make people go home. No new NGO's, no Missionaries on a quest to convert Haitians, no more self proclaimed experts.

The fault is not all in the arriving masses--there is, as I have written before, simply no governance, no body in control of screening, planning short or long term, and balancing the needs, ideas, and activities of people, government, NGO's, private sector, etc. So the earth trembles under the thundering hooves, scrambling to get their piece.

And, there is a lot of fear.

A recent return to kidnapping for ransom has terrified some members of the international community. The consequences of kidnaping are horrible, and, doesn't anyone see the irony in the legendary amounts of money "pouring in" (where?), the massive influx of foreigners driving nice cars and driving prices sky-high, and the lack of visible, meaningful change? Why are so many people still camping under torn pieces of tarp when we have been raising the concern about the rains since January 13th?

I say, if you're that scared, go home. Fear produces fear. We don't need any more fear here.

A friend of mine has started a brilliant project. For $10.00 a truckload, he buys rubble, dumps and spreads it over his formerly flood-prone land, and large tractors flatten, "squoosh" and distribute it. When they find bodies or body parts, they give them a proper burial. The land is already flat and the smell recedes with time. The flooding risk is almost entirely eliminated now, and they are beginning to move tents to this higher, drier ground. Eventually, they will build houses here.

I cannot ignore the obvious and perhaps cliche image of the Phoenix, rising from the ashes. Homes --eventually a community--built on debris, death, destruction: this is transformation.

port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 4

I have just returned home and went to my favorite yoga class today. Our luminous teacher shared some words she woke up with, following a night of rich dreams:

HOPE IS A HERO

She went on to describe how all the tulips planted at her mesa-top home had survived a long day and night of fierce winds. Perhaps, she speculated, the petals gather in and relax--versus cling---and that is how they hold on.

The image reminds me of Haiti -- of her people. Of the communities still gathered to support one another to live outside, to live through the rains, to cook, sleep, protect their children. Kampe--stand up---Kenbe---hang on. Hang on with strength and grace.

I remembered three more stories I'll share in closing this trips blog.

One of the woman I counseled on Wednesday described herself as having accepted the situation. After a month or so of fear, sadness, distress, she chose to accept and to go on with her life. Kenbe. Her house and family intact, she recognizes that this is easier for her than for others. And others are the source of her distress now:

"I cannot bear to look around me when I walk or drive anywhere. Everytime I see how people are suffering, how they are living, I feel despair. I want to help everyone, and then I feel overwhelmed. "

We talked for a moment about sensitivity, about prioritizing what we can and cannot do, about the sense of connectedness that is core to Haitian values.

Then she switched to her concerns for her 5 year old daughter. "Everytime we go out, she covers her eyes, as if she cannot bear to look. I ask her why she does this. She says "I don't want to see all this Mommy." She asks me: "Is that ok? Is she ok?"

My reply: "I think your daughter has found a really good coping strategy. Maybe she is trying to teach you. What would happen if you do this together? We all have limits to what we can bear witness to. She knows that, and has figured out how to practice that."

She loved the simple idea of sharing this practice with her daughter, even though she still acknowledged that she felt bad at not being able to do more, and at having the privilege to close her eyes to others suffering. She was deeply grateful for the "permission" to give herself breaks--moments of rest-from the overwhelming stimulus around her.

I met with a young man, in his early twenties, who began the session with a long, "spiraly" description of how he had changed. His summary: "I don't trust anyone, anymore." I tried several probes to see if we could locate a root, in the earthquake experience, for this sentiment--which is common after interpersonal traumas and human rights abuses. The intensity of his conviction seemed unusual following a natural disaster---though the magnitude of this ongoing disaster and tragedy is certainly capable of destroying trust. There is so little to anchor into, in Haiti. So little clear direction towards the future, no leadership, not enough housing in the rainy season, not enough food and clean water. No progress, or, very minute progress.

We talked for awhile, and he shared very openly, and with humility. I told him I was impressed with his ability to reveal so much in a time when he could not trust. He paused, thinking. He smiled warmly at me, nodded his head.

Two names lit up in my head, like a traffic light. "Sartre" and "Camus." I asked if he had read, or heard of, these philosophers. He had not, and, had wanted to. He lit up with curiosity and enthusiasm.

I spoke a little about my perception that he might be describing what some would call an existential crisis. I spoke about my sense of his losing his center--and he resonated immediately with this idea. He seemed relieved to have this named.

Along with referrals for two local psychologists with training in existential psychology, I "assigned" him to read the works of these two authors, and added Samuel Beckett to the list.

We agreed he could write me with thoughts and questions; though I suggested if he chooses to pursue therapy, he might request these works be a part of his therapeutic process. He left with what he described as "a little hope that he had something interesting to do, and gratitude that he had experienced a small moment of trust in his sharing."

On the way to the airport the following morning, I had to pee really badly. Since the earthquake, there is no bathroom available prior to the gate and boarding area. The lines to get into the airport can result in a 1-2 hour wait.

It was 6:45 m. The driver stopped at a service station /shop that appeared to not be open, but had people roaming around. When he asked if there was a toilet, there was a somewhat frantic exchange, and I was ushered to the back of the partially damaged building.

A man in a service station uniform lead me by the bathroom. Locked. We kept going. When we made it to the back, there was the typical rocky, chaotic pathway through a brief concrete alley into the back of the building. Puddles, mud, rocks, everywhere. Dismal.

Living quarters. A young law enforcement officer was dressing, putting on his swat uniform. He greeted me and apologetically moved aside so I could enter his shabby, concrete, drenched with rain, partially broken living quarters. A tiny dark, dank room with a simple cot. Across from it, a changing room that looked more like a small cell. The toilet--modern flush, and clean, sat in its own tiny dark room with barely a door.

I apologized for interrupting, joking that I should not have had coffee before the long drive to the airport, and bemoaning the lack of toilets at the makeshift airport.

"No, its my fault,: he said. I have the key to the bathroom here but cannot find it. Please..." and he pointed to the tiny toilet room.

When I entered the door would not shut, so he offered "I will hold it shut." He did, leaning against it with his weight.

I left, thanked him and apologized again for interrupting his morning routine. "Its o." he said, kindly, generously, smiling, and extending his hand. "Have a good trip."

I left this brief exchange with these two questions:

1. What is to become of a country where a member of the law enforcement swat team--with all the responsibility of that profession-- must dress each morning in such dismal, broken, unlivable conditions?

2. How does someone living in such difficult conditions offer such gracious, kind assistance to a complete stranger who essentially barges into their home at 6:45 am?

port au Prince, Haiti Day 10, Trip 4

Today is my last day on this trip. I’ll have a little more rest between this trip and the next. Its time.

I have spent the past 2 days working with groups of vibrant young people who work with a local cell phone company. Most of my work is large group informational sessions on stress, trauma, support, coping etc. I am also providing “ti konsays” (little consults) on an as needed basis. I don’t have as much time with this group, so I am limited to consults vs. more therapeutic work.

One young man, in his introduction, began to describe his current “symptoms” (shaking, pervasive fear, high stress levels, distraction) and said he had frozen when the earthquake happened. He said this before I talked about the nervous system, fight-flight freeze reactions, etc.

He was one of the first to wait and meet with me. As he described his “symptoms” it became clear to me he would benefit from more intensive attention—one small session can only begin to assist in the amelioration of these distress signals, and, there are ethical issues in going too deep without appropriate follow up time.

An intuitive hunch directed me to ask him to tell his story about the moments he experienced during the earthquake. I don’t think I have asked anyone to do this, yet. If people volunteer to share, I listen. I don’t ask, nor do I push.

He shared that he was working at the airport, and was supervising the sales area. He was responsible for the cash box and the other employees working in their small, gated (but open at the time) work space.

When the quake began, people all around began to run. He felt the impulse to run. Responsible for large sums of cash, he did not. He planted himself by the cashbox. When his employees began to panic, he instructed them to stay—he said “We don’t know what’s happening—wait and see”. A practical, logical strategy –with some risk, certainly--in a moment of mass chaos—and one that would not have been possible if he had truly “frozen”.

When the building began to crumble around him—glass breaking, concrete and plaster falling, the loudness of destruction and the earth violently shifting place—he yelled at his employees to wait ( their small work space remained intact) until it ended. He did this because “I had no idea what was happening. I did not know exactly what the danger was and didn’t want anyone to get hurt.” He also did not want to leave the cash box unattended.

Once the shaking ended he instructed all his employees to run to safety. Then he remained to lock and close the cash box, the office, and the gate, and only then did he run out of the airport to see the horror unfolding around him. He spent the next many hours making sure all the employees stayed together until they could get home to families.

As he shared this story, he was visibly frightened. He shook. He fought back tears. He became paler. His “energy” appeared to shrink. He reported feeling weak and afraid.

I asked him where he felt weak and afraid. “My legs. My heart. Its beating so fast.”

“Take a breath. Feel your heart. It beats because you are still here. Breathe again. Take a few breaths. Don’t change your breath—just breathe.”

He calmed down; slowed down. I asked him to “check in” with his legs.

“They feel a little stronger but they are still afraid.” I noticed they were trembling—discharging. I asked what they wanted to do.

“Run.”

“Did they want to run when the earthquake happened?”

“Yes—but I had to stay—I had to protect the office and the money.”

I might have had him run in place, or work more metaphorically or with micro-movements,with the image or act of running, were I in place or context where we could go deeper.

Instead:

“Where can you run?”

“Nowhere now.’

“Where do you love to run?”

“The beach.”

He left with a “homeplay” assignment—go the beach, which is close to Port au Prince and easily accessible to him, and run. “Run Run Run Run. Run until you want to stop”.

He agreed. He will go this weekend, and run. He will write me and give me a report after he runs.

We checked in with his legs again; they were strong, and still. “I can feel them under me. I can feel them carry me.”

As we finished our “ti konsay”, I reinforced for him that he had not actually “frozen”, he had actually acted. Acted to ensure safety for his team and for the offices’ financial and other resources. I reminded him that this level of cognition and awareness is typical of soldier’s prepared to protect and defend. I asked if he was aware that he had put his own life at risk, by remaining in the airport even after others left. He became very still, and he said “I have not thought about that. That’s why I am so scared. Now I know—next time—I will run.”

Finishing” “Yes you took a risk, and, you survived. You are still here. You were strong, awake, and brave. Does your supervisor know you did this?”

He replied that his supervisor had never even asked how he was, where he was, or what had happened.

With his permission, I share his story, to ensure that this young man’s small but significant actions will be acknowledged.

This is the coming full circle: The Running. The practical learning that next time –if this happens again--he will try a different strategy. He will run. Acknowledgement—that he is here, and that someone knows how extraordinarily well he did his job during 35 seconds of hell.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 8, Trip 4

Last night, we danced. The place where I danced at least 2 times a week when I lived here in 2004 resumed classes for the first time since the earthquake. We had a gathering last week--a free master class for the community to gather and dance--and last night a new season of dance began.

Several weeks ago I was listening to ManShoun, my Spiritual Mother, while contemplating the future of Haiti. She made something exceedingly clear to me: Listen. My instructions were to make sure there are as many drums beating, feet and bodies dancing, as possible between July 15 and August 15 (August 14 is Fet Bwa Kayman). We are to listen for the very first drum beat--the beat of Haiti's true heart. I understand this instruction from the perspective of fractal mathematics: Find the source, the original variable, that initiated the birth of Ayiti. And play-beat-dance-sing-move-breathe-live this source-of-rhythm in every thought, movement, feeling, action. Thats where healing and restoration are. Thats where leadership is. Thats where the future is--entwined in the origin of the spirit of this place, land, people. Not in the variations off this moment or beat that have occurred--in the roots. Razin genyen histwa nouvel.

Nap komansay ak piye ki priye.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 6, Trip 4

I am still blogging a lot less, because days are very very full. In the past 24 hours there have been 3 aftershocks that get everyone's attention--today I was literally jumping down from a stair into our HR office and next thing I knew, everyone was outside, panicking and making phone calls. I hadn't felt it because I was "airborne", but it shook people up. A lot. Last night, a 4.6 woke me up--I felt as if someone had literally slammed the bed up and down.

People are really wearing thin. Today even the "toughest" of people said I DON'T WANT TO FEEL ANOTHER SHAKE. Our staff support team circulated, making sure everyone was ok. Giving people a chance to breathe, shake it off, sound, talk--whatever. Rumors of ANOTHER abound and so, despite the widely shared fact that each "sekus" represents a release in the earth's tension, its impossible for us here in Haiti--surrounded by so many ongoing reminders of January 12--not to wonder if there is another big one coming. The onslaught of Missionaries spreading their misguided theories of Armageddon, and that Haitians are being punished -- and will be punished -- for their sins with more earthquakes (if they don't convert)--only amplify's the fear and the misunderstanding and the anxiety.

Since my arrival I have seen a leg, a head, and a scalp uncovered. Each day we drive to the office and there is another place where bodies, and body parts, are burned. A black char mark on the mixed pile of rubbage and rubble that stands as the sole reminder that someone else was found.

Despite all this---and the heavy rains that have begun to fall--there appears to be no solid plan forward, no long term consideration, no true leadership and decision making.

We wait. We wait each day as we drive past slowly shrinking piles of cements and clothes and body parts and stuff that now begin to block the roads again after a long night of rain. We wait when the occasional waft of death invades our nostrils and reminds us, its not over. We wait while people report rapes and robberies in full daylight in the camps, while kidnapping appears to be on the rise, while fear becomes the scent in the air everyone is breathing.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 2, Trip 4

I arrived very early yesterday and am once again, am struck by the flood of "etranje" who have invaded Ayiti. Between these trips, I have found myself feeling great concern that Ayiti will be trampled underneath the well-meaning--and, sometimes not-so-well-meaning--inundation of outsiders who position themselves as experts, despite many (most, perhaps) having no previous experience in this complex cultural and cosmological context.

I almost wish someone would stand at the airport with a sign that says: THANKS--BUT NO THANKS. PLEASE GO HOME UNLESS WE INVITED YOU. There is no monitoring or control process here; I recall Rwanda where all NGO's wanting to operate went through a vigorous approval by the then controlling RFP; or Kosovo, where after several significant blunders by NGO's, stricter entry and control measures were established.

Ayiti needs this. Apparently much of the control has been signed over. If this is true, it will simply mean another and equally destructive tragedy to this beautiful country.

A friend shared the recently discovered original deklarasyon l'independans that was discovered in England. One of the principles it emphasizes is "Live Independent or Die."

Once stability has been restored here, I hope:

1. The Declaration will be returned to Ayiti, to the place of its birth

2. The world will read it, and respect it.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 15, Trip 3

In the early part of this week I resumed staff support/counseling sessions for another NGO who contacted me in January, and who have waited since then for my availability.

As I begin to write, I wonder who I am writing for. I believe I initially began this blog so that anyone interested might receive some first hand information from Haiti. Later, it seemed to me that I wrote for myself; to share the images, stories, words I cannot carry alone. Now, I believe I blog for every Haitian who has courageously opened up and shared with me----and for those ho might still be waiting for someone to listen.

These stories take up residence in our bodies. Unshared, they can begin to form and shape us from their hiding place inside. No-one should bear the weight or shape of these stories alone. One man, whose story I will share later, only wanted to speak what he had seen, smelled, touched, heard, felt—and never spoken. Then, he was finished. He didn’t seek advice, or a promise that things would be better. He didn’t even seek “therapy”. He sought a place to rest his story.

Many Haitians share how previously, it was not customary, or culturally common, to open up with a stranger and share emotions. Psychology was stigmatized by many, and inaccessible for most. I have been reminded many times in the many trainings and group sessions I have held since 1998 that “Haitians don’t cry in public”, that “Haitian men don’t cry so as to remain strong”, that “sharing personal, private information with people outside family or community is simply not done”. Since the earthquake, I have been asked these questions many times:

Am I normal if I cry so much?

Am I normal if I sit with a psychologist and share my thoughts, feelings and experiences?

I don’t understand why I still cry, feel fear, feel alone – why have I changed? What has changed for me?

Everything.

Haiti is not the same. Her heart has broken, into many pieces. There is no apparent leadership to comfort, reassure, rebuild. As one man who has spent his entire professional life devoted to rule of law and governance in Haiti told me yesterday: “I can never share this with anyone else, but I have to say this to you now. There is no-one here who can lead this country. We cannot lead or direct ourselves into the future. My heart is so broken; I am bereft for my country. Our Father cannot take care of his children. Haiti can not do it.”

I have known him for almost 10 years, and this was the first time I saw him sit in silence for an extended time, and weep.

It is customary when I begin a new assignment that I meet with the Director and get a briefing and overview of the organization, and the needs of the team, from his or her perspective. When I sat down with the director earlier this week, I heard his story, because his story was so intimately woven into his teams’ story. He was in a major government building when the earthquake happened, and it fell, instantly. For three days, he and the others he was with pulled bodies—some alive, many dead—from the heavy piles of rubble. They spent much of those 3 days trying to get a woman out who was still alive. Her feet were pinned and crushed; her head was caught in between the metal base of a chair. They had only a crowbar to work with. They freed her head before they freed her feet. She was bleeding and weakening. At the end of the third day, he described having made the “moral decision to amputate her feet” in order to free her. They did get her out without an amputation, then drove the city for 6 hours looking for someone to treat her. There was no-one. Finally a doctor took her to the Dominican Republic. Attempts to find out what happened are futile. Her family has never heard from her. He fears she did not make it.

Following her rescue, he began to walk the city to find every member of the staff. He walked 25 kilometers in less than a day. He went to every house to know who was alive, who had a house to live in, who was gone. At the crushed house of one of his senior team members, he helped him dig, barehanded, through the debris to locate his 1 year old son. He was dead. His tiny feet and legs were crushed.

I spoke to that Father later. He is the one who asked only to “rest” his story. He ran to his home after the earthquake to find his wife and son. She had been out, so she arrived too, distraught. They dug and dug until they found him. He showed me his photo. An angel. He was a child they waited for, for years. After many years and multiple failed attempts to become pregnant, they adopted. Their adopted child is still alive. Shortly after they adopted her, they had their birth-child. He was a dream come true, a gift, a treasure. When he found his body he had to hold him tightly through the night to keep a growing circle of dogs from eating him. He had been napping on his mat, and died instantly. His Father wandered with his tiny body for 5 days, looking for a small coffin. He passed piles of dead bodies. He described the stench as horror-as unforgettable. He finally left the small child in a makeshift box at a morgue. He “fights” to go on. His wife lost her work as the school she taught at collapsed. She is bereft; spends each day in despair. Each time she cries, which is often, their tiny daughter reaches for her face and wipes her tears away and says “Mommy, Mommy—don’t cry”.

He pauses as he reflects on this.

“She comforts us with her tiny hands.”

He cries. His eyes have black circles of exhaustion under them as he fights to keep the tears back. He holds his head. He shakes his head. He looks at me, holding my gaze for a long period of time. He says “I am living for my daughter, for this love. For my wife, for this love. For the gift of my son, even though it was for only a brief time. I am holding on to the knowledge that he did not suffer. I think he is still sleeping; he just kept on sleeping.” He describes himself as “fighting” the immensity of grief everyday. We talk about the importance of knowing our beloved children do not suffer when we cannot protect them—and how protecting them is our deepest longing and mission.

He looks at me and his eyes are a question.

I don’t know.

All I can say:

“If your grief were the ocean, these are your anchors. Your wife. Your daughter. Your love. Your son did not suffer. He is sleeping, eternal.”

There is nothing else I can say.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 3

This seems like a much busier trip, its difficult to find time to write. Things in Haiti are very accelerated. Similar to Aceh after the tsunami, the second wave has arrived---here they are referred to as the second earthquake, or the invasion of the "extra terrestrials." There are so many ekstranje (foreigners), or blan ("white") as we are called. As someone who is not Haitian, but is considered local, I am privy to the sometimes humorous and sometimes distressed musings and rantings of my Haitian brothers and sisters. We all hoped that the inpouring of aid would somehow be tailored to the Haitian people, and context. This does not appear to be happening.

Its actually mostly the NGO's that people both appreciate and express concern about. There are many, many new NGO's operating here, without any prior history, and apparently, without much interest in taking the time to listen. As the initial groups of emergency responders, military etc begin to withdraw, there is talk of a transition to the transition phase--transition between emergency and some return to a development focus. This seems both necessary and premature--premature because there is still so much destruction, post earthquake. Necessary because no-one seems to be thinking long-term, global, inclusive, strategic. As tragic and horrible as this earthquake has been, as is always true when things are torn apart--there is an opportunity for change, renewal, new beginnings, rebirth, transformation. The transition phase must take this into consideration, or Haiti may not benefit from the world's generosity.

We spent time with a few members of my Haitian family last evening. The wisdom re: how to move forward is in the minds and hearts of the local community. Many of them work at a grass roots level. They have their ears, hands, hearts to the ground. Yo gen konesans..they have the knowledge. I wish we could have a conference--required for all ngo's, especially the newly arrived-- with these dedicated, community-level brilliant people who know--KNOW---Haiti.

Sunday we took a day to visit the beach. A most interesting apropos scenario occurred. At the end of the day as I was looking at some beautiful paintings sold by local artists. They were arranged around a lovely garden of trees and stones. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a helicopter preparing to fly. Moments later, a UN helicopter transporting some of the many UN workers to a well-deserved beach break lifted into the air, and the intense gust of wind generated by the lift off knocked all the paintings down. I helped the artists restore their paintings to their display--then, again. A helicopter landing and all the paintings fell down. The artists laughed and shook their heads in frustration at the same time. "This happens a lot---we know they come to help us, but they always leave something behind we have to clean up."

Today I had a session with a woman who describes herself as middle class. She told me about a dilemma the working class is experiencing that I had not heard about before. Much of the aid coming in is going to the poor--most appropriately. The wealthy have access to resources (i.e bank loans, credit, etc.) others do not. The middle or working class is caught, well--in the middle. Because they have jobs, many assume they have the capacity to get the same credit the wealthy do (which they do not) or to take care of their kids. Many of them are struggling to sustain their household economies because they are suddenly paying extraordinary fees to send their children to schools in the US. They cannot get loans, or credit. They are maintaining professional level positions and are still sleeping in tents, on the streets, bathing in public places, eating food cooked over a fire, spending sleepless nights listening to mosquitoes or trucks roaring by or the sound of someone crying, snoring, shouting. They are the group of people Haiti will depend on to mache devan--move forward----and, many of them question remaining here with so much insecurity, challenge, and such drastic changes to their individual, familial and collective homes.

Who can blame them?

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 10, Trip 3

Yesterday we worked with our new staff support team, who gave their first "wellness presentation". They were marvelous. I was ecstatic all day. After -- and along with -- so much destruction and suffering, the pure pleasure of training, teaching, sharing, inspiring a team is absolute joy. People ask me all the time why, or how, I do this work. This is why.

I am certain our team will serve our program brilliantly. And as one of the first comprehensive staff support teams/programs to be implemented after the earthquake, they will serve Haiti by inspiring the same types of support at other organizations. The feedback from training participants -- especially other NGO's -- was that the training was original, and well contextualized for Haiti. Everyone felt ready to begin this process; essentially, to develop programs to take care of their local staff -- which means taking care of the Haitian people.

Today, Trauma Resources International's "HANDS ON HAITI" team of cranial-sacral therapists arrived and are already at work. I just went down to their work space to see how they are doing and to see if any interpretation is needed. The space where they are working has become pure prayer. There is a line of people waiting for sessions.

The idea for this occurred to my dear friend Karen and I after my first trip here. So many of the complaints I heard focused on pain and tension in the spine, neck, head, and the "de-equilibration" of the nervous system. Working somatically was very helpful; we knew that this type of work might also provide much needed amelioration of these more physical complaints.

Last night I ran into one of my dance teachers here, and didn't recognize her. I admitted this, as I have known this for many years. She simply said: "I'm tired." A good friend of hers, who also happens to be a good friend of a person I counseled today, lost his baby in a home near the Hotel Montana. Because the parents were traveling, the child was in the care of an Aunt, who was at work when the earthquake hit. The babysitter charged with the care of the baby ran out of the home, afraid. She left the baby. The house collapsed. The baby hasn't been found.

I cried when I heard this story for the second time today. I thought about the idea of "6 degrees of separation" and how connected we all are. I think about the enormity of this tragedy, of the many, many stories I---one solo person--has heard and processed. How many more stories? How many times is this sadness magnified, still? I reflect on a favorite poem by Thich Nat Han, "Please Call Me By My True Name". I once heard something about joy and pain emerging from the same seed. My reflections today are somewhere in that seed.

port au Prince, Haiti Day 8, Trip 3

We've been in training all week--moving around much more than before. A colleague and I are training a staff support team to provide full time and long term support to the local employees who are affected by the earthquake.

Affected is such an understatement:

Today we drove into work a little late, and passed through the road we are actually not supposed to drive on. Everything is collapsed; some of the buildings hang precariously towards the road. A big enough tremor or a hard enough rain and they could crush traffic moving alongside or under them. It will be years before this area is clear----so far, only locals with small tools are seen working through the massive piles of rubble.

A crowd was beginning to gather, and peer down the hill. We were late for work so we continued on the remaining five minutes, thinking nothing of it.

Thirty minutes later, one of our team members arrived. Her eyes were moist. She sat down and bowed her head. "They just found more bodies." She began to weep. "When will this be over?"

When we looked, there was a skull hanging from a tree, waiting to be identified. The four bodies were carefully laid out on sheets, barely recognizable as human. She shared how they were talking about one of the heads, whose fuzzy, matted hair still clung to it. The crowd mused aloud whether it was a woman, or a rasta.

One body was birdlike. The skin and sinew had stretched -- almost as if it had melted. The contraction and apparent webbing created an image of a suffering pewter colored bird. Wings contracting and expanding at the same time. The nose on the decaying face seemed bird-like. No eyes. Hands tightly clenched, claw-like. Fingers now a mass of dark leather. The tension of a horrible death. Another appeared to be a child. Now just a mass of clothes and leathery segments of limbs. The children looking on cried, as did a woman. Had she known them? Did she know their names? Their ages? What did she know about these lives?

Later, the smell of smoke and burning human. Now, locals burn the bodies they find--there is no-one assisting with the remains of these precious lives. They are piled up, burned, and ashes scattered. We breathe them in, perhaps one way their memories will go on. We can carry a trace of them in us.

port au Prince, Haiti Day 5, Trip 3

Internet has been spotty and time is seeping away. This is a very busy trip as I am both counseling and setting up a longer term staff support program, which means hiring, training, preparing people.

Today I rested for a few hours in the mountains, at a friends home. The cleanliness, silence and beauty was a dramatic contrast to Port au Prince. It is easy for me to forget how lovely Haiti is when I am spending so much time in the destruction. We spent a small part of the afternoon looking for tiny little frogs that live in the highlands and make a shrill sound, like the high pitches of a xylophone. No luck today.

Two evenings ago we celebrated a friends birthday--a young birthday. She is not yet 30. Most of her family was killed in the earthquake. She lost the center of her life, and has struggled since, uncertain as to why she should even go on. I have no idea what a birthday means to her; I know what they mean to me: Family. Friendship. Prayer and reverence and reflection Celebration.

Throughout the evening she "disappeared", her eyes wandering and at times vacant; the space where she sat felt empty. It was a lovely evening, and--- the absence of everything that she orients to, organizes around, lives for felt to me like a booming hole of silence. I cannot stop thinking about the evening. About what wasn't. Its very hard to put this into words.

There are several places downtown where bones are piling up. As more and more rubble is moved, bones emerge. The French embassy is sending pieces of femurs to France for DNA testing. At east 33 are dead, some are still missing. So now there are several piles by each former building: Small rubble. Big rubble. Bones.

A friend described sitting in the tent camps in BelAir--a slum where much of the past gang violence has occurred and where gangs are supposed to be emerging again. The woman rocks a tiny baby on her lap, cleaning its feet. She is sitting a few feet from a site that is covered in charred remains of burning--the place where the finally burned all the bodies that had piled up. Black dust and bone shrapnel and this is the only place to bathe and comfort a baby.

There are several half complete structures there-- when the violence showed early signs of re-occurring, all the NGO's left. Left half built outdoor shower stalls and some tents and a little food and water that will soon be gone. So the community sits and waits, and waits, and waits, and waits. They have decided to "re-do" their image--so they are forming neighborhood cooperatives and gathering materials and doing what they can to complete projects, clean their neighborhood up, and provide safety for their families and the many children there. While they wait.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 3, Trip 3

There are so many small moments that become the threads of hope, healing, and others that contain traces of grief, fear.

When I first drove up to the office, the groundskeeper happened to be right there. His face became a burst of light as he walked up to me and took both my hands and said "Oh--you're here. You came back." He held my hands and my gaze as he recounted how many times he sat in the office and smelled an oil, or prayed, or reflected on something. And felt quiet, calm and safe.

He has moved back into a structure to sleep. His one living child has a protected place to be during the day and his school will re-open soon. He sleeps. He showed me the tiny bottle of oil, still in his pocket, still a vial of hope.

One of my clinical colleagues has begun using some of the oils, sprays, and contemplative methods I taught her with her clients, and she describes "moments of calm, c-a-l-m. I see their nervous systems calm down." She describes how each one of these moments restores an aspect of their vitality, and the joy at "seeing them come back".

The juxtaposition of all of these moments against a backdrop of neater and taller piles of rubble, what was left of a head of hair, or scalp, dug up in todays clearing, the invasion of foreign help that often means well but even more often tramples local resources, the knowledge that Haiti will never be the same, that many of the losses have erased landmarks and structures that have deep historical and cultural roots, and are symbols of pride and place to people here.....people's faces look sadder, more tired, more flat, more bone weary.

What does it take to revive the spirit of place? It is clear that there is a much larger suffering here that isn't just the accumulation of years of terrible things or of each individual story or tragedy. It is the shattering of a collective reality, of the soul-sense of familiar, of the often unacknowledged markers of belonging. It is everything stripped away for many while others adjust to inconveniences or losses or massive change--a continuum of loss that affects everyone, all the time. A continuum that truly doesn't end.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 1, Trip 3

The trip in was easier---every flight landed early every transition smooth.

I sat beside two women who were returning to their birthplace for the first time since the earthquake. Both praised God when we landed at the busy, busy airport safely, and both cried as we wound our way through the new airport, looking through large glass windows at the old, cracked, sad looking international airport.

I waited in the hot sun for an hour for my ride. The traffic is thicker than I have ever seen. Its impossible to get a car near the arrival area. The driver rushed up, apologetic. He had been in traffic for over 2 hours (it can be as brief as a 30 minute drive from the office to the airport.

The roads seem thinner, because the rubble has been gathered in, waiting to be removed. Higher piles beside the road, neat and organized. We ran over the stiff body of a cat, clearly dead for awhile. I asked the driver why no-one removed the putrefying feline corpse; he replied "its just another dead body. And its not a person."

The team greeted me enthusiastically and warmly. Many of them shared stories of sitting on the little couch in the quiet space, using the oils I left behind, reflecting . ''This room is our resting place."

Driving home, we passed the tent camp in Plas St Piye; it looks the same. Traffic is a gridlock because there is a band playing a concert. It is strange --there is almost a festival feeling as the music drifts over the trees and makeshift tents and people gathering in the park. Two families face one another, chatting, while they combs their children's hair. One baby is given a dramatic fro and laughs as his hair is teased. I smile and a slighter older toddle wanders towards our car that is not moving, waving and clapping. I clap out the window and we "air pattycake" until our car finally moves beyond the damp. I wave.

Around the corner I see a red pick up truck, and beside it, a lovely young woman bare naked, bucket bathing in the open while her young child-perhaps 6 years old--tries to shield her from view. She continuously turns from view, but almost 360 degrees around her, there are people. I think of dignity. A tiny child and a red pick up are her shower stall, her privacy.

We pass actual make shift shower stalls-a simple wooden square structure surrounded with blue tarp, and the words "DOUCHE" written on it. I see 3 smaller squares, 3 sets of bare feet on the muddy earth. There are holes, large and small, in the tarp. Privacy.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 9 & 10, Trip 2

Returning home, this time for a few weeks, I prepare to be in a place where homes still stand, where the air is fresh and clean, where driving to the store and stocking up on favorite snacks is not a luxury or a privilege, but just another task in a busy day.

The morning I flew to Haiti, news reporters were swarming American Airlines check in counter, interviewing Haitians flying on the first commercial flight to Port au Prince since the earthquake.

When I rushed up, my clothes crooked and hair uncombed because I had dressed so quickly when I learned my original flight was leaving 2 hours early, I was relieved to find a seat on the second flight and was signing the credit card receipt when one of the reporters yelled "Hey, thats woman's buying a one way ticket!" Suddenly there was a glare of many cameras on me and 5 microphones in my face. "Are you buying a one way ticket?!" "Whats your relationship to Haiti--have you ever been there?!" "One way--are you going to come back?!" I was momentarily stunned, and then began to answer the questions and apparently, made it on several Miami news stations and a few radio casts. It was pretty simple: I bought a 1 way ticket because my flight had left without me, and I had a return; Haiti is my hearts home and I have worked and visited there since 1998; Yes I would come home; here is what I do there.... I imagine the contrast of my pedestrian answers with the image of a white, disheveled, hectic woman rushing up to buy a one way ticket to Haiti where the largest disaster in terms of human loss and destruction to a major city was playing out.

Now, there is very little on the news about the Haiti earthquake because it is no longer new. People ask me if its getting better; if things have improved? I don't know how to answer. Yes, more rubble is cleared, the air was less dusty and the stench had subsided except in a few areas; there were more tents and less makeshift plastic sheeting structures; supplies are arriving to Port au Prince, Leogane and Jacmel; the airport is open now.

Better?

There are at least 211,000 people known dead and countless more who will never be found. A million people have lost homes. A friend who has a long-time, successful business had to let go 70% of her staff because there is no economy. Many of them had worked for her for over 20 years. She was heartbroken, crying, trying to find tents and safe places for them to live, raising money for them to rebuild homes, providing medical care for their babies and children. There are still remnants of bodies rotting under debris and sometimes being pulled out from under. There were two more quakes when I was there, and many aftershocks. Every time, the same fear and terror coursed through people's bodies and they came to my office, sweating, trembling, crying; or at night, let out a collective cry in the streets which was audible throughout the city.

When I first began teaching in Haiti, I was told that crying (especially for men) was not done publicly, and "therapy"--speaking openly with a stranger--was not common in this culture. Yet I had lines of people some days, waiting to talk, to cry, to share things they could not tell anyone else. Men 30, 40, 50, 60 years old, sobbing for 20 minutes, terrified of the future, afraid they can not support their family members, still trembling inside like the earthquake never stopped.

I don't know what better will be for Haiti, but I know it won't happen if Haiti drops off the radar and is forgotten. On my flights home, many people were returning from Haiti and as we talked about our experiences, almost everyone commented on the resilience of Haitian people.

Yes, they are resilient, and its because of this resilience that they deserve our ongoing support. The words I hear to describe people at food distribution centers, in tent camps, in clinics: "Resilient." "Dignified." "Grateful."

I believe that the Haitian people are world leaders in resilience, and hope that they will someday have the opportunity they deserve to teach the rest of us to embody the same collective strength and grace that they do.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 7 & 8, trip 2

Today has been stressful. I was to be picked up early and transported to Jacmel, via Leogane, with a “VIP” team (CEO’s) visiting the projects. Because the driver forgot to pick me up and because the “VIP” team would not wait 10 minutes for me to catch up, I missed my ride—and arrived 1.5 hours late for two days of intensive counseling—group and individual -- in very hard hit areas. The domino effect meant that there were many people expecting group or individual time with me, who never got it. I learned that the “VIP” team actually got mad they had to wait for me----I wonder if they have any idea how long people who lived the horrors of January 12 have waited for someone to come and listen to them, counsel them, care? I question any CEO’s leadership if they no longer have the insight to appreciate the importance of this. I have had lines of people waiting for me, and today, when one man had to be turned away after waiting 2 hours (because an insensitive security officer insisted I leave immediately, despite a later departure having been authorized) his face was so crestfallen I still cannot settle inside myself. I will go back tomorrow if that’s the only way to complete those sessions.

Driving yesterday, I saw a partial body, the lower torso only, a bloated mass in plaid shorts, very recently retrieved from rubble. Several days ago I saw what was barely recognizable as a body being pulled from the rubble of a massive building. How many lives ended like this, here? Crushed, torn apart, and decomposed beyond any semblance of their human form by the time they are found?

Almost every session begins with “I have not felt the same since the earthquake. My head has gone bad---I lose myself.” Complaints include pain, intrusive thoughts, loss of concentration, and forgetting things all the time, to the point of shame and frustration. I remind people that the memories, here, are still fresh. They are kept current by many reminders-reminders of horror, pain, loss, hardship, change. There is no where to be still yet— the earth continues to move enough that a pause to rest is difficult.

In Jacmel, a once jubilant seaside town, people are so reactive and so exhausted I am in sessions for 10 hours, straight. People describe the earth still moving, in their bodies –“I know its not the earth, but I feel it. I feel like the earth is moving, I am trembling again even when it isn’t happening.”

There are, still, hopeful moments. One of the first people I spoke with here approached me just before I left Jacmel to thank me for “her first night of sleep since the earthquake.” I woke up very early and swam in the sea….she was cooler than usual, which is perhaps due to the earthquake (one wonders these things)—and livelier than I remember this little bay. I took 15 minutes to just float, to be refreshed by her coolness and to allow her undulations to relax me into a more fluid state. I have been doing a lot of work with breath, spine and weight---many people complain of stiffness, pain, loss of movement, and the oceans natural healing is not accessible—nor safe—for everyone now. We work with restoring fluidity through our own bodies.

One women came to see me with her tiny baby. She had two—when she began running (in Leogane) the earth moved so violently she fell, killing one of her own babies. She is still “Sezi” (shocked) and believes that’s why she cannot nurse her child enough. He is dwindling---a tiny, skeletal-looking being who knew to look for her breast but gave up quickly, because he gets so exhausted. She clearly loves him and tried to support him, but is absent inside herself.

This is how the tragedy replicates itself, a fractal of suffering.